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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23954878">Till Death Do Us Reunite</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/arual1407/pseuds/arual1407'>arual1407</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Genderfluid Character, Graphic Description of Corpses, Multi, Necromancy, Polyamory, no beta reading we die like men</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:07:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,507</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23954878</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/arual1407/pseuds/arual1407</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After 200 years spent missing someone he's never really known, the Nerevarine gets desperate.<br/>Now, if only his desperation didn't involve some daedra-sanctioned necromancy and a boatload of awful decisions.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dagoth Ur/Nerevarine, Dagoth Ur/Sotha Sil, Dagoth Ur/Vivec, Indoril Almalexia/Dagoth Ur, Indoril Almalexia/Nerevarine, Indoril Almalexia/Sotha Sil, Indoril Almalexia/Sotha Sil/Vivec, Indoril Almalexia/Vivec, Nerevarine/Sotha Sil, Nerevarine/Tribunal (Elder Scrolls), Nerevarine/Vivec, Sotha Sil/Vivec</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Return</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Welcome back to my Morrowind garbage, have fun with this rewrite that's no doubt going to turn out much, much longer than I ever planned. Now featuring extra backstory and more bickering!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’d been digging for days, desperate and angry with himself for having collapsed the tunnel in the first place. It had been a moment of grief, a moment of wanting nothing more than to just bury the memories, the feelings under so much rubble along with the Clockwork City. Of course it had failed. Even as he abandoned the whole place, the feelings of failure, the thoughts that he’d killed his lovers. Sure, technically he’d only killed Almalexia, but it was his actions which had directly lead to the death of Sil, he was the reason why Alma had cracked, broken, shattered like fine glass and cut everyone around her to bloody ribbons. It was his fault that Vvardenfell was gone. It was his fault that thousands upon thousands were dead, choked by ash and smog, killed by the overrunning foyada’s, crushed and trapped by the rocks spewing from Red Mountain. It was all his fucking fault.</p><p> </p><p>Even way back before it was his fault. He should have thrown the profane tools into the caldera at Red Mountain after Kagrenac had done whatever the fuck it was with them. The tools should never have been allowed to fall into anyone’s hands; they should have been destroyed and he should have insisted on it. The heart should have been sealed away forever and the council should have been sworn to secrecy. It was his fault that that had never happened. And his lack of insistence had directly caused everything.</p><p>That lack of insistence was the reason why he was currently knee deep in rubble, sweating profusely, staring at the broken remains of yet another pickaxe. At some point the handle had broken halfway up, apparently covering the palm of his hand in splinters.</p><p>Paying attention to the world around him had been something he was good at once upon a time. It had been his way in life, paying attention, working when nobody was looking. Then Corprus had happened, unfortunately, and it made time and space slip through his fingers like sand.</p><p>Fingers. Hands. Pain. Right, splinters.</p><p> </p><p>Finding a place to sit at least didn’t take too long, and neither did picking out the majority of the splinters. Some were in too deep for him to easily pick out, but that was fine. Motivation and focus from pain and all that nonsense. Finding a new handle for the pickaxe didn’t take too long either, so at least it was back to work soon enough. Digging out the tunnel was hard work, but it was one of very few places where losing time was fine, it wouldn’t matter. There was no night or day, just the steady ebb and flow of Vivec coming and going as they pleased. Honestly, whatever they were doing was probably best left to them, and he didn’t for a moment doubt that they weren’t following any sort of schedule either. In his mind they were just a soft presence on the edge of everything, reminding him to eat, drink and sleep here and there. No pattern, no schedule, just whenever they happened to be around. A gentle hand on his shoulder, nimble fingers prying his trembling hands off of the tools, a soft voice leading him to warmth, light, out of the darkness and to their camp for food and sleep.</p><p>When he woke again they were gone as always, a pounded rice cake with a sweet yam center left out for him to grab as he got up and got back to work.</p><p> </p><p>By the time he broke through the last of the rubble, he had no idea what day it was, if it was even still the same year. Time had lost all meaning, and the only thing ahead was the faint murmur of magic still clinging to the bones of the miniature city. Even in the dim, tarnished and scuffed, it was beautiful. For all that Sil had always scoffed at the notion that he was in any way an artist, the tiny city could only have been built by someone with a focus on the aesthetics. Such a shame that it was all dwemer inspired aesthetics, and the dwemer’s opinions on art were all shit.</p><p>The lingering hints of magic was at least enough to get him in there, even if the city had clearly run itself down ages ago. The halls were littered with dead factotums, any with organic parts long since withered down to dried husks, while the purely metallic ones seemed to have just eventually come to a halt, literally or figuratively running out of steam. No matter which it were, both options were sad to see, though they functioned as decent enough motivation to keep going, to keep heading for his destination.</p><p> </p><p>When he <em> did </em> reach the chamber at the center, it was just as silent as he’d expected. The only sounds echoing through the chamber were the occasional clanking of something metallic, and the hammering of his own heart.</p><p>And there, in the middle of the chamber, untouched by the ravages of time, were the bodies of Sotha Sil and Almalexia. From a distance it could almost look like they were just asleep, sprawled across the floor in a haphazard pile of limbs. Almost.</p><p>It was eerie how alive both of them almost looked, at least until he got up close enough to kneel down by both of them and reach out to carefully touch them. Carefully, so, so carefully, he laid a hand on Almalexia’s head, gently brushing a red curl away from her face, sunken as it was. Her skin was like paper under his hand, dry, fragile, ready to crumble to dust at a second's notice. In his other hand he took Sil’s left hand, the metallic one, tarnished and almost stuck in place after more than two centuries of disuse.</p><p> </p><p>Stepping away from them and leaving was almost painful, but materials were needed for the blasphemous ritual he was going to be performing. Materials, and the proper timing was a necessity as well. Sure, technically he could commune with Azura at any time of day or night, but the favor he was going to be asking of her was going to require a certain amount of sucking up. That was maybe the only annoying thing about directly serving a daedric prince, aside from the whole thing with being asked to do the most random things; having to suck up to anyone really ground his gears. (An apt turn of phrase, considering where he was at the moment.) At least Vehk had reminded him about the whole sucking up thing, meaning that he’d actually grabbed some decent offerings before heading underground for who knows how long.</p><p>At least he carried the offerings with him, meaning that he could get started almost immediately. Carefully, like he was handling threads of spider silk and fine merrow paper, he removed the trappings of royalty and godhood from the bodies of Almalexia and Sotha Sil, starting with Ayem. Every so gently he removed her crown, loosened the armor and set it aside to be picked up again later. Even in death she was as beautiful as ever, red hair a crown of fire around her head. She’d always been fire, blazing and full of fury or warming like a hearth, like the warm springs, soothing and kind and gentle. No wonder that she, with her warmth and blaze, had fallen into the role of Mother Morrowind with ease.</p><p>Freeing Seht too significantly longer; wires had to be pulled ever so carefully from dead, dry flesh, the mechanical had to be separated from the biological, metal and flesh separated. The last things he worked on was gently removing the metallic covering from Sil’s right arm, ending with the careful process of picking apart the gauntlet Sil had no doubt built for himself to cover the asymmetry cause by what little flesh he had left. Looking at the parts, his chest felt like it was squeezed as he realized just how thin Sil must have gotten for the parts to fit; towards the end he couldn’t have been more than skin and bones. Maybe it shouldn’t have been surprising, considering how Sil had always locked himself away, but it was still painful to think about.</p><p>The last part to come off was Seht’s mask and crown, baring his face and the burn scars warping the left side of his face. No doubt he’d have hidden those with magic as well, but now, out in the open, Neht found himself just looking at them, admiring how even after being marked so heavily by the fires of Mehrunes Dagon, Sil had gone on to become one of the cleverest, brightest, bravest men alive.</p><p>No matter how much he wanted to just stay there, he had to eventually got up, though.</p><p> </p><p>Drawing the ritual patterns on the floor in ash and blood was far, far easier than it should have been; just one of the many benefits of being basically impervious to most injuries and physical damage, a little bit of bleeding could do nothing to hurt him, so long as he remembered to eat something later to make up for the blood loss. he lines were intricate, three cornered, one corner to the east for the dawn, one corner to the west for the dusk and a corner to the north for the land beneath the moon and stars. Usually each of the corners would be marked for the three good daedra, but he was choosing to count on the goodwill he’d gathered with Azura. Faith and hope would have to carry them through the power needed for a single daedra to fulfill his wish. It was dangerous, sure, there was a chance the full power of Oblivion would rip through the veil separating Nirn and Oblivion, but he would trust Azura to be gentle as the setting sun, he would trust her to be the dew settling on the ashlands, soft and life giving and gentle. He would trust her with his life, and the lives of his lovers.</p><p>Sigils, symbols, words in scrawled dunmeri, all lining the edges of the circle around the triangle, filling out the empty space with protection, power, foul necromancy and divine blessings. He might have been completely inept at actually drawing magic into existence from Aetherius, but he knew the symbols, he had the knowledge, he could shape the letters and symbols to take down a nation or restore life, but he couldn’t provide the spark. But that was fine, today he wouldn’t have to.</p><p>Candles at the corners, rose petals, dew, moonstone and incense in the center. Fine enough sacrifices, even if the rose petals were dry, the dew barely filled a vial and the moonstone was old and scratched. It would have to do.</p><p> </p><p>The finally the last piece of the puzzle; incredibly gently Neht lifted the bodies of his past lovers into the center of the ritual, Almalexia on the right and Sotha Sil on the left.</p><p>Finally, finally he could begin the ritual. Finally he could kneel down on the outside of the circle, hold Moon-And-Star carefully between his hands and pray. He would kneel, pray, and wait until there was an answer. Even if he had to sit there for the next century, he would wait, he wouldn’t move, nothing was more important than</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Nerevar, my evening star.</em> </b>
</p><p>“Azura,” he whispered in the dark, voice full of reverence as her warm and gentle presence filled his heart, his head, his lungs, the scent of rose and dew and wet soil clinging to her very presence. “I’m sorry, I’m <em> so sorry- </em>”</p><p>
  <b> <em>Hush, my dear star. I’ve heard you, evening star, I know your plight.</em> </b>
</p><p>“I shouldn’t be asking for this, I know what they’ve done, I know they’ve spat on the promise we made, they broke our oath, I know that, but <em> please </em>-”</p><p>
  <b> <em>Oh Nerevar… I know, I see the longing in your heart and soul, I know you want to make things right. This is why I chose you, my star. You care so much for everyone, your heart is big enough for all of Morrowind. For your sake I will do it. I trust that your heart will hold them, broken as they are, and I trust that they will bring you joy. You have served me so well, my evening star, and this is my final great reward for you.</em> </b>
</p><p>“Wait, does that mean-”</p><p>
  <b> <em>I will not abandon you. I will bring back those you love, and then you must travel north, to the city of dark light, to find the last of my gifts to you. You must stand by your people, Nerevar. Trying, dangerous times are ahead, and the world has need of you once again. Do not fail, Nehtekem.</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Her words stunned him into silent, still awe. It was only at the feeling of her touch, gentle as the waves at Holamayan, upon his forehead that he dared open his eyes again. Of course the chamber was as empty as before, and it took him a moment to realize that his cheeks were wet with tears.</p><p>The circle in front of him was glowing, though.</p><p>Right, ritual.</p><p>Dropping the ring, he placed his hands on the edge of the circle and whispered the incantation, holding on for dear life as a wave of daedric magic struck. It was like being suddenly underwater, drowning, gasping for breath and finding none. The power was overwhelming, and all he could do was hold on for dear life and try to breathe as magic swallowed him up, buried him in a thick blanket of dark blue, dotted with glimmers of starlight judging by what little he could see through watering eyes. </p><p>In spite of the struggle to keep his footing, he remembered what had to be done and so leaned forward, planting his hands on the edge of the circle to open the ritual. The raging rush of power from Oblivion drowned out the sound of his own voice as he almost screamed the incantations into the din.</p><p> </p><p>The second the last of the words left his lips, the roar of Oblivion ceased, fading into the crackle of magic jumping along the symbols painted in blood and ash, setting them alight in the colors of dusk and dawn, dark blues fading to peach pink and sunset yellow, the edges tinged dark purple and studded with starlight. It was beautiful, but still felt wrong without the blood red of Boethiah and the silken white of Mephala.</p><p>No time for such thoughts, though. The ritual was still going, the whole chamber shaking with the power dancing along the lines drawn on the floor, crackling in the air like lightning, arching like fish jumping from the surface of the Padomaic Ocean.</p><p>Another wave of power almost knocked him on his ass, hitting him like a storm surge nd only the gentle pressure of a hand on his back kept him upright as he pressed his eyes shut against the last surge from Moonshadow.</p><p> </p><p>By the time he dared open his eyes again, it was all over. The circle was dead beneath his hands, faded, and the offerings had been reduced to ash scattered around the room. And there, in the middle of the circle, lay Almalexia and Sotha Sil, both alive, both breathing.</p><p>For all that his limbs felt like they were made of lead, he got to his feet and stumbled to them only to fall to his knees between them. They were alive. Both of them were breathing, and when Neht grabbed their hands they were warm, alive, real, not a mirage or hallucination. They were alive.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Memories, and the feeling of home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Update schedule? don't know her. Besides it's only been like, almost four months.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The world was silent as Sotha Sil woke up. No more ticking, the whispering of Aetherius in his head had gone silent and behind his eyelids it was dark for the first time in millenia. The threads of fate were gone, the silk strings laying out his path and the path for everyone around him had been severed. Uncertainty welled up in his head and his heart like a breath of fresh air as he could let himself wonder. Not about what the path ahead might have looked like in a different time and place, but what the path ahead looked like in general.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a weight off of his shoulders, the chance to doubt, to question, to grasp at something beyond his knowledge, to strive and wish and struggle, to wrestle with uncertainty and doubt and second-guessing. It felt like being free for the first time in millenia, like finally breathing fresh air after years spent underground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How it had happened came back in fits and spurts, half sensation and half memory; strength waning, metal rusting in flesh, the threads at his hands and behind his eyes fading, Almalexia looking at him with madness twisting her face into the visage of Boethiah and then waking up. Waking up where?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rubbing a hand over his face, he shifted so that he could push himself into a sitting position, hissing with pain as the old, twisted scars on his torso were pulled by the movement, aching in ways he hadn’t felt in so, so long. That pain had been the first thing he’d been rid of, so in a way it was only fitting that without divinity he was back to being as helpless as he’d been before. Well, mostly. No mage would ever be truly helpless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And a good thing, that. Nearby someone made a noise, moved, and without even a second of hesitation Sil threw a thunderbolt at whoever it was, and instant, instinctual reaction. All he could tell from the figure he’d sent flying through the air was that whoever they were, they were dressed in dark leathers, they had long hair tied up in a Redoran warriors knot and braid and they were curled up with their back to him, groaning from the impact no doubt. When the person sat up, they did so with a pained groan and a hand pressed to their ribs. A dunmer, probably male, face scarred but handsome. Gaunt cheeks, sharp jaw, thick lips, nose curved with a wide bridge, upturned eyes and thick brows. Something about him was familiar, but it wasn’t until he spoke that it clicked into place for Sil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck’s sake, Seht, I almost died to bring you back, and this is the thanks I get?” The man asked, voice teasing and despite the Cyrodiilic accent tinging his speech, it was so distinctly Nerevar’s voice. It felt like a punch to the gut, and all Sil could do was gape as the man approached, sitting himself on the edge of the bedroll. Up close the similarities just became more similar; the scars were different, the skin was different, the bone structure lacking a padding from a privileged commander’s life, but it was so distinctly what Nerevar would have looked like in another life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?” Was all Sil could say at first. “We killed you. How are you here? You were </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Neht. We laid you to rest with your ancestors.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Azura wasn’t quite done with me,” Nerevar-but-not-quite replied with a shrug. His posture was different, his mannerisms more muted, Nerevar would have gestured widely but the man sitting on the edge of the bedroll had just pulled up his knees and folded his arms on top. “I mean, someone had to clean up the mess you three made of Morrowind. Stop the blight, defeat the Sharmat, all that shit, y’know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The mess </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span> made? We had nothing to do with whatever has happened, personally I haven’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>touched</span>
  </em>
  <span> mortal affairs for centuries, so I had </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do with-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tone of Nerevar’s voice had him going silent immediately, cold and sharp like a blade against his throat. In the silence, Nerevar took a deep breath, then continued speaking;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You absolutely had </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do with it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> had to figure out what the hell Kagrenac did, how to fix it, and how to then use that whole divine shit. Now, I’m not saying that Alma isn’t smart, but she never had the patience for that stuff and Vehk couldn’t pour water out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> figured it all out and enabled everything, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> didn’t stop what happened. You didn’t kick the ass of whoever suggested making you gods, so if nothing else you’re an accomplice. Fuck’s sake, Sil, you’re supposed to be the smart one here, but if you can’t figure out how you had a part in all that and why I might be slightly pissed about that you’re dumber than a bag of rocks. Or you just have about as much thought left as Vehk three swigs deep in skooma.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words stung like his father’s old merrow cane on his back, like saltwater in fresh wounds, like the bite of a slaughterfish or cutting your hand on a kollop shell. Sharp, relentless, unforgiving. The worst thing was that Nerevar was right. He held at least part of the blame. It’d been him who’d studied Sunder, Keening and Wraithguard until he’d practically gone cross eyed, studying and translating obscure dwemeri texts, he’d shredded Kagrenac’s laboratory in the search for answers. How could he deny his part in it all?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right,” he admitted after a moment of silence. “Of course you are. You make it sound like something awful, happened, though, like we caused the end of the world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You almost did. Or, well, the end of Morrowind. Did you know about the divine disease?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look on his face must have been enough for Nerevar, who simply continued.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course you don’t, Vehk probably didn’t tell you shit, or you had your head so far up some fabricant’s ass you might just have been gargling oil. The divine disease was something Voryn cooked up to destroy the outlanders and claim the dunmer. Corprus it’s also called. Anyone infected would be deformed, go mad. Dunmer would be turned into mindless slaves, their faces would rot off. Anyone else would be covered in growths, turned into these giant, hulking monsters. Sometimes the growths also happened to outlander Dunmer. But y’know, fixed that shit. Killed Voryn, destroyed the heart, you know how it goes. Then there was the whole mess with Baar Dau.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s the meteorite over Vivec’s city, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yup. They couldn’t hold it back without their divinity, and nobody talked them into putting it down quietly while they could, or throwing out back out into whatever’s beyond the sky, so that sort of came crashing down and set off Red Mountain. All of Vvardenfell got destroyed and the rest of Morrowind’s dealing with a knee deep layer of ash on a daily basis.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Learning that all of Vvardenfell was gone, that Morrowind was in ruins, felt like a punch to the gut. Everything they’d fought, killed, deceived, to protect was gone or buried under ash. And in the end it was his fault; he was the one who’d brought up using the heart and breaking their promise, he was the one who’d studied the tools, he was the one who’d told the others of the ritual. He’d stood by and watched everything that came after, hadn’t dared look into the future for fear of seeing exactly what he was seeing now; all their efforts in vain, their home and their people destroyed by their mistakes, their failures. If only he’d acted, or maybe not acted at all. If he’d never acted at all, the heart would have been left to rot beneath Red Mountain. Or maybe Almalexia would have beaten herself bloody against it to learn how to use it, or Vivec might have stumbled into it as they always seemed to stumble into knowledge. If nothing else it might have slowed the inevitable. Maybe he could even have stopped it. He should have stopped it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The realization settled in his chest like a lead casing around his heart, crushing his lungs and crawling up his throat. It blurred his vision aaas he realized how many lives had to have been lost because of his actions, or his lack of action in some way. How many had choked on ash? How many had been crushed by the debris, drowned in new foyadas, burnt alive or choked on smog?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The arms Nerevar-but-not placed around his shoulders were warm, firm, and he allowed himself to lean into the embrace and bury his face in the crook of Nerevar’s neck. It felt like being home again, even his eyes watered and the breath in his lungs grew thick and sticky, coming out as a quiet sob as Sil held on for dear life. There was going to be no words between the two of them, just the quiet sound of grief for a lost country as Sil clung to Nerevar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyes were still watery and his nose was running when he finally allowed himself to let go of the man holding him. “I’m sorry.. You’re right, all of that is.. If nothing else, I should have tried to stop it,” he mumbled, voice croaking and cracking. “I’m so sorry, Neht…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, now you can help me fix shit. Once we get you set up with some prosthetics, I mean. Hold on, I grabbed a factotum, I figured you could probably refit some of that.” And just like that it seemed like all was forgiven. Nerevar practically shot up, heading off to the side and retrieving a whole factotum. Or, well, almost whole. The head seemed to have been ripped off at some point, leaving behind a mess of torn metal, wires and pipes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you.. did you rip the head off of that?” Sil asked, unable to disguise the shock in his (still croaky) voice. The design had been extensively tested, nothing short of a giant with anger issues should have been able to rip apart a factotum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah. It's quicker than battering them or trying to poke through them. And I sorta needed it mostly intact, but the head could go,” Nerevar replied with a shrug, setting the limp machine down next to Seht. He then mumbled something or other, conjuring up a ball of light. The sheer nonchalance, like it wasn’t anything other than a normal tirdas, was honestly shocking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing short of a dragon should be able to do that. How do you even manage that?” Sil asked, even as he scooted along to examine the factotum. Reconstructing the limbs to serve as prosthetics would take time, but it was nothing he couldn’t do. With access to the right tools, of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s like pulling the head off a shrimp; twist and pull.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The fact that you’re speaking so casually of destroying something I built to withstand almost anything is faintly upsetting. Neht, what in the actual fuck?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh, Corprus, y’know.” And once again he just shrugged, as though his words were supposed to just make sense. “Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> the factotums built to be so tough anyway? Seems kind of like a waste of effort to make every single factotum basically indestructible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sil sighed, pausing his examination of the factotum to answer the question. “For a while in the second era, the Clockwork City was open to outsiders, with some limitations, of course. During that time we went through thousands upon thousands of factotums due to a glitch in their hostility software, leading to them becoming hostile towards the outsiders. The glitch wasn’t caught for several centuries, so instead I just had the apostles build sturdier factotums. And closed the city to outsiders after a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look of amusement on Nerevar’s face was incredibly familiar, and incredibly annoying, so of course Sil responded with a slight glare. “Why don’t you make yourself actually useful here? I need tools.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow, </span>
  <em>
    <span>make myself useful</span>
  </em>
  <span>, if I didn’t know better I’d say you got that from Vehk. Make myself useful, how dare you,” Nerevar responded, voice teasing. He did get up again, though, gathering up a couple of things from somewhere off to the side. “At least let me tie your hair back before I go, otherwise you might just give me shit for not having done that when I get back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only if you remember how to do it properly,” Sil teased back, unable to help himself as he settled.As Neht started running a comb through his hair, he couldn’t help but lean his head back and just bask in the touch. It was like being home again, feeling Neht fumble with the strands of hair, but no doubt working hard at the braided style of house Sotha. It had never been something he was good at, shaping the braided net, getting it pinned up and making sure it looked presentable enough to meet Sil’s high standards. Standards set by his family once upon a time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the time the feeling of fingers through his hair finished, Sil was halfway asleep again, blinking himself awake when a kiss was pressed to the scarred patch just behind his ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neht was even offering him a mirror to check it all out, which he did, leading him to a moment of quiet surprise. It was almost perfect. The only thing missing was the little decorative beads and threads meant to be woven in and out of the braided net, but he was confident Vehk would provide those, if they were still around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll suffice. There’s still a long way to go, though,” he teased Neht, cackling at the gentle slap at his shoulder. He was home again, allowing himself to lean back into warm, familiar arms. Knowing how things always went, there was a long road ahead, but it was a start. And once Neht got off his ass and retrieved those tools he’d even be able to make himself useful.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Breakfast and Banter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Shorter chapter here to prove I'm still alive. 2020 didn't manage to end me and it didn't manage to end this fic.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Coming back to their camp to the sound of Neht and Sil bickering settled in their bones like warm porridge in an empty stomach, relief tinged with pain radiating from their chest like warm rays of sunlight on their back. Not that Vehk hadn’t expected Neht to succeed, it was just that they hadn’t expected all the pieces to fall into place so easily, they had expected cracks canyon wide and yawning, setting them on uncertain ground with crags of fear and regrets and pain to separate them. Coming back to chatter and occasional laughter felt like missing a step on a flight of stairs, that drop in the pit of their stomach while they waited for the other shoe to drop on them. The universe always seemed to have a second shoe in store for them somehow.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>While waiting for that second shoe to drop, they sat themself next to Almalexia, looking at her, taking in the stains of sleep at the corner of eyes which now shone like rubies against fine ebony, her cheek laced with the remainders of the ink that had once painted stark lines across skin as golden as the sands of Summerset. Now they were the striations in folded iron, raw ebony ore ready to be forged in the fire behind her eyes. Beautiful, ready to become dangerous.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They didn’t need words, the two of them. When Almalexia reached to take their hand, Vivec just let her, holding on tight. It all felt wrong, slightly off center, tinged slightly too hopeful and too cloyingly perfect. Something was bound to go wrong, it was just a matter of when and where.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But not now.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Right then and there, they gently pulled their hand from Alma’s, ignoring her groggy grumbling in favor of digging into their bag and pulling out a packet of food. Rice bread, netch jerky, a packet of yam mash, comberry jam, nothing grand but certainly better than the stew slob they’d had to force into Neht over the last couple of weeks. The idiot couldn’t be trusted to hold onto anything more than a bowl while he’d been digging, and even that had been a struggle and a half. Idiot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, now that he was done with all that it didn’t take more than a minute or so before Neht spotted the food. Like a fucking tracker hound. And like a tracker hound he practically came scuttling over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hands off, feed Sil before you feed yourself,” they just told him, smacking Neht’s hands away from the whole packet of jerky.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sil won’t even notice if I eat before him,” Neht shot back, going for the yam mash instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He won’t even notice if you eat all of it without even giving him a crumb.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course Sil popped his head up at that, glaring in their general direction. “I want you to know I resent that notion.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it a lie, though?” Vivec quipped back, handing half the bread loaf and the jam to Neht.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“... Shut up, Vehk,” Sil shot back, only mildly distracted by whatever he was doing, messing around with one of his fabricants.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Like home, but a little too sticky sweet. Just enough to feel sugar coated and wrong. Somewhere under the syrupy warmth of feeling at home there was bound to be a bitter center, the chitin shard in the hound stew so to speak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At least for now the warmth of the situation could comfort them, distract them for now while they carefully ripped open the remaining half loaf of bread. A quarter for themself and a quarter for Almalexia, theirs smeared with yam mash while she pretended to gag at the sight of it. So of course, in return they stole a bite of her bread, cackling as they attempted to escape her wrath. Maybe the chasms between them all weren’t as gaping as they’d originally thought. Maybe Ayem wouldn’t beat them senseless for stealing her breakfast. (Wishful thinking was definitely allowed, even if they would happily fight any divine being attempting to fulfill their wish because fuck the scheming daedra and fuck the useless aedra and fuck whatever it was the Altmer believed in.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alas, wishful thinking remained wishful thinking as they felt Almalexia’s hand snag the back of the shawl tied around their shoulders and chest, halting them in their step and snapping them back like a bow string after the archer looses their arrow. Needless to say, their ass hit the ground and Almalexia was on them immediately, smacking them with open palms in the same harmless approximation of a fight as always. It was an old song and dance, her way of bickering when all her words had been spent on scheming house masters and unwilling allies and the complications of politics. And honestly, Vivec had long since learned the meaning behind her open handed strikes, how they were her equivalent of Seht’s tired glares, Neht’s complaining and ranting, Voryn’s brooding silence and their own retreating into their body whenever things became too much.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Still, eventually they managed to catch one of the hands coming up to gently smack their cheek and instead of letting the movement end it’s arch they pressed a kiss to her palm in some attempt at soothing whatever frustration was thrumming beneath her skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It probably shouldn’t be a surprise when it worked and she even offered them a hand back up, but alas, those last few decades had trained them to expect no kindness from her hand. Having her back like she had used to be was a relief, a breath of fresh air, a cool breeze and hackle-lo sap on sunburned skin, cool water for a dry throat. When she leaned into and gently pressed her forehead against theirs they could only respond in kind, wrapping their arms around her waist while she ran her hands over the stubble on their scalp and along their jaw.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, you awful little bastard,” she almost whispered, voice soft in their moment of intimacy. “We should check and make sure Neht isn’t stealing all of our breakfast.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If he even </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinks</span>
  </em>
  <span> about stealing the jerky I’m going to break all of his fingers and make sure they set crooked.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sound of </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> returning a packet of jerky to the pile of food was probably a good indication of what Neht had been doing while the two of them were distracted. Maybe they’d just break one of his pinky fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I come over there and see half of it gone I’m not going to get food for you for a whole week,” they practically growled while stepping away from Almalexia (now cackling at their anger) in order to focus on Neht (now looking quite sheepish).</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I had two pieces!” Neht responded, almost managing to sound genuinely offended. Just almost.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m going to count out how much you ate and every piece you’re lying about is another ass kicking I’m saving up for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s fair.” He shrugged, then started rooting through some of their bags. Probably to find their teapot and tea pouch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And if you try to bribe me with tea I’m going to throw such a massive fit you’ll wish for the ability to die.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Darling, I already wish for that every day I wake up next to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe they should have expected something like that. Maybe Neht should’ve stopped laughing long enough to dodge the rock they lobbed at his head. Instead he just yelped as it hit just above his ear, then laid down to whine about it like a giant baby. Another morning, another round of general bullshit. At least Almalexia seemed to take over the tea making without complaining, and Seht even set his mechanical fuckery aside to shuffle closer to the fire. (Of course Vivec sat themself next to him to offer a literal shoulder to lean on, just for a bit.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, can anyone explain who in their right mind thought it was a good idea to call Nerevar Nehtekem Iyadoht in this life?” Sil asked, vaguely gesturing towards Neht as he spoke. The man in question finally stopped long enough to actually say something vaguely coherent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The director of the orphanage I grew up at gave all unnamed kids stupid fucking names. All unnamed dunmer kids got combinations of two letters as a first and last name because apparently asking for some cultural sensitivity is too much to ask of imperials.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> technically imperial? Outlander scum,” Vivec quipped, teasing and gentle. (It made both Sil and Alma laugh loud enough to drown out Neht’s theatrical outrage.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As if your name is any better, honestly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At least my name has some sentimental value.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How about we agree both your names are shit and we shall forever refer to you as dumb and dumber?” Alma added, struggling to stifle her giggles long enough to get through the sentence. Honestly, how they’d managed without the banter during all those years...</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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